Another Time and Place
by Ruralstar
Summary: After the vent Owen must come to terms with how he really feels about Cristina Yang. He decides to ask her out to dinner. The evening is more difficult than either could have expected. A/N this is part one of three but it can be read as a stand-alone.


A/N pt2: Many thanks to the reviewer for pointing out something I should have clarified. Timothy Miller was the homeless man who died in "Rise Up". Timothy Dahner is an original character I created in my story "Failure to Connect" I referenced him here and I will do so again in the Christmas piece to follow. Sorry for the confusion.

Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy and its original characters are the property of ABC, Shondra Rhimes and co. No copyright infringement is intended by these humble efforts.

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Another Time and Place

_"Out of time, Out of space, anything can happen on the vent."_

Looking back it was a ridiculous thing to say. The kind of nonsense an over-sexed adolescent might conjure in the hopes of scoring some flesh on a hot summer night. Familiar because he had been that boy whispering promises of someday while a girl wriggled beneath him. Their sweaty flesh sticking to the vinyl seats, their clothes lying in a tangled heap amidst the rubbish on the floor of a beat up Chevy sedan. The radio had been playing some cheesy love ballad as they jockeyed for a comfortable position, finally giving up and letting the seat springs and ripped upholstery wreak havoc with their tender flesh.

_"Out of time, Out of space, anything can happen on the vent."_

Ridiculous, but dear God he meant every word.

The rush of adrenaline and light that he had not felt since their first kiss months ago was already fading. The resultant void now filled with a familiar sense of futility and guilt. Standing there in the dark, feeling her body warm and alive and tasting her mutual desire for the first time, was a dream made suddenly, tantalizing real. After Iraq he did not consider the possibility of getting close to anyone ever again. The ability to love, even in friendship, had drained away like the blood into the sand.

Then there was Cristina.

Owen Hunt sighed wearily and reached for his coat. Why come back to Seattle if not for her? He was born and raised on the East Coast; all ties to the West had been lost in the RPG ambush. He could have gone anywhere but he chose Seattle Grace to start over. Surely no one would remember him, and if they did so much the better. He could reestablish himself professionally. Personally…Owen tried not to think about the personal. Easier to work and forget—except work was no longer enough. Seeing Cristina again was the first chink of many in the armor he donned the day of his discharge. Telling her why he left the service seemed necessary if they were to work together. It was the first, and the last, intimate experience he could share. Every interaction between them since had been deeply rooted in their jobs. Her own revelations tainted by the shades of anger and guilt that colored his world. He had been aggressive and cold, telling himself that distance was the best way to teach her. He could not tell her the truth. That seeing her name on the surgical board or glimpsing her from the end of a crowded hall were highlights of his days. That forcing himself on her outside of Joe's Bar had made him seriously consider eating the muzzle of the '38 revolver stashed in the glove box of his car. If not for work he might have met the same fate as Timothy Miller a hell of a lot sooner. No, he could not tell her the truth. A stutter in place of an apology, a repentant smile and murmured adulation in lieu of support, was the best he could manage.

Owen leaned his forehead against the cold metal of the locker door and closed his eyes.

The vent had been an accidental find. To say sleep had been elusive since his discharge was tantamount to calling the Titanic a rowboat. He had an apartment but six nights out of seven found him working extra shifts at the hospital or prowling the halls in order to avoid someone accidentally discovering him in the throws of a nightmare in the on-call room. Owen tended to shy away from places like pediatrics or the cancer ward. Both were equally disturbing for very different reasons. If there was a place one could be alone while still feeling the pulse of the entity that was Seattle Grace however, Owen knew about it. The rush of air from the vent cleared the cobwebs. Helped him think through the controlled panic he frequently found himself in.

Yesterday morning had been typical. Awakened from a fitful doze by his pager, a splash of water on his face and then outside to stand in a bitter December drizzle and wait for the ambulance. Owen was too busy to think about the meeting scheduled for 8 a.m. He would have missed it entirely if not for the increasing crowd of Residents spilling into the hallway near the trauma center. He had made up his mind a week ago but the Chief had refused to discuss the situation until today. Owen resented being forced to go through the motions of the mandatory meeting. He arrived five minutes late and listened dutifully to Richard's instructions and his reasoning in choosing to remove Cristina from consideration. The decision was met with a variety of reactions by the other Attendings. Owen said nothing. He did not agree and he would not pretend otherwise. Nor did he see the need to argue with a man whose mind was made up. The message was clear. Every Attending chose Cristina on the basis of past performance and future potential.

Owen discovered her several hours later hip-deep in file folders, the look in her eyes confirming that the 'sucking up' by her fellow Residents had begun in earnest. He wanted to make it simple for her but Cristina was mired too deeply in soured loyalties and bitter resentment to listen. She simply stared nonplussed at the suggestion that her choice could, or should, come from anywhere besides a strict, clinical analysis. Owen left her alone, saying just loud enough that choosing her was based purely on a gut instinct. Letting her wonder what choice he was referring to and allowing himself a moment of levity in the process.

Later he watched Cristina try to talk to Meredith and then confront an observation room full of her peers. She stated her case and Owen felt an unwarranted sense of pride at her words. Cristina was ambitious, driven by demons she had only begun to examine. Empathy flared with surprising heat in his chest as she walked out of the room, head high, tears like glass in her dark eyes. The moment to say something was at hand. He tried but in the end all he could do was stammer like that long lost adolescent. Let down his guard long enough to show her a safe haven. Did she hear the strain in his voice? His emotions were so close to the surface. It was a relief to see her infectious smile and feel its mirror on his lips.

Twenty four hours had passed since Alex Karev began his solo surgery. Cristina had been granted some time off and Owen had just finished a grueling twelve hour shift. He did not want to think about blood or mangled bones for a very long time. The prospect of losing the distracting routine of the hospital for two days filled him with equal dismay. Each stint of downtime was worse than the last. Going to speak to Cristina should have been an easy choice. In the light of time however, doubt had crept into the place where hope had lit. Was it just a stolen moment down on the vent? Were their burdens really lighter or was it merely perception?

Would that adolescent boy rear his head again if he knocked on Cristina's door and asked her out for a drink?

Owen pushed off the locker and walked out of the room. The usual noise of the hospital flowed around him like water. People waved and nodded goodnight. He responded mechanically as he proceeded to the ER and out the big glass doors to the parking lot. In the distance a siren howled and he stiffened automatically. It was tempting to turn around and walk right back in. Shaking his head, Owen continued up the sidewalk and around the curve of the building. The wind was a sharp slap to the face as he confronted the street that ran between the hospital and Cristina's apartment complex.

Left or right?

He stood shivering on the sidewalk, hands jammed firmly into pockets as the wind flattened the hair to the side of his head and chilled his right ear to a bright pink. There were moments in life that were neither good nor bad, merely forks in the road. The choices made frequently determined the true value of events that led to the decision. Owen looked up at the sky. Tiny snowflakes swirled in the orange tinted mist hanging above the city. Each was as individual as the creatures it fell upon. A swirl, a hole, a pattern of lace too delicate to touch; every variation shaped by the pressures of the atmosphere that surrounded it. Their individuality could not be preserved without help. No two were the same and something immeasurable was lost each time they melted away.

Owen brushed the moisture from his face and looked right. There was a light on above the door of Cristina's apartment. He blew a jet of steamy breath out in a quick huff and started to walk. Anxiety spawned a deeper chill than the wind,but he only stopped long enough to let a taxi pass by. A surreptitious glance up and down the street and then he raised white fingers to the doorbell marked **YANG**. Distantly he heard a chime and then silence. Owen cursed beneath his breath. The decision had been made; it seemed only natural that she should be here. The inherent arrogance of that assumption set his teeth on edge. Who was he to presume that Cristina Yang had no life beyond Seattle Grace? Owen shook his head and pushed the bell a second time, completely at a loss as to what he wanted to happen next.

Light appeared in the crack beneath the door. The metal clack of a deadbolt drawing back sounded and the heavy door swung inward. Cristina stood in the hallway clad in a pair of black sweats and a cream sweater frayed slightly at the cuffs. Her hair was held back by a cloth headband and Owen could see her bare toes painted lavender peeking out from beneath the hem of the sweats. She looked fresh and feminine and clearly startled by his presence.

"Hi," he managed around the cotton in his mouth.

"Uh…hi." Cristina stepped back. "Step inside, it's freezing out there." He hesitated and she rolled her eyes. "It's the hallway, not my apartment."

Owen chuckled self-consciously at the reminder. Her apartment was an enticing thought that still felt as wrong as it had a week ago when they were sitting on the steps outside. He shoved the uneasy question of when might be the right time to one side as he stepped in and leaned against the door.

Cristina folded her arms and eyed him up and down. "Just get off work?"

Owen nodded mutely.

"You do know why you're here this time?"

She said it with a glint of mischief in her eyes. Owen laughed softly and felt some of the ice melt away. "I wanted to know if…you had eaten."

"No, I was thinking of ordering in later."

"Would you like to go out instead?" He said it too quickly, knowing it sounded a touch desperate and unable to make it less so. It was more than being alone. It was silence so deep that you could hear its peculiar clamor in the recesses of your brain. She knew the sound, he could see it her eyes and in the way she pursed her lips at his question. Owen shrugged. "Nothing fancy. Italian?"

Cristina glanced down. "I'll need to change first."

"I can wait." He wondered at the faint smile that lifted her mouth but dare not ask.

"Ten minutes?"

Owen nodded and she trotted up the stairs and around a corner to the right of the landing. Ten minutes stretched closer to twenty as he fidgeted in the hall. He felt exposed and distinctly juvenile. Echoes of long ago dates and paternal instructions flitted through memory. The silent stares from protective parents who, as it turned out, had every reason to worry for the virtue of their daughters. Owen Hunt, the Don Juan of Elliot Nascom High School, rarely kept a girl for more than a month. Commitment had been a foreign concept even in the relatively sheltered halls of small town USA. A lot had changed, he noted with a rueful grimace.

Cristina's footsteps pulled Owen back to the present. He glanced up and the breath caught in his throat.

She had swapped her sweats for heather-grey slacks. The cream sweater had been replaced by a rich burgundy blend with black filigree at the cuffs and collar. Thin silver pins accented the thick black curls now free to fall around her face. She walked down the steps with a slight smile indicating her pleasure in his open-mouthed appraisal.

"Uh, I feel underdressed," he admitted sheepishly.

The smile rose into Cristina's eyes as she looked him over again. "Don't be ridiculous. You look good in jeans."

~*~

The Italian restaurant Owen had in mind was in a suburb on the outskirts of the city. They took his car and traveled several back streets. Saved on directions and traffic, he excused. In reality, Owen did not want anyone they knew to see them. He was private and he wanted things to stay that way. The evening would be theirs to enjoy, or endure.

Owen found a parking space across the street from the restaurant and wheeled his car into it. Confronted with at least an hour of small talk and a firm resolution not to discuss work, he felt fresh butterflies. "Are you sure you're okay with this?" he asked.

"Little late now, isn't it?"

"You're not making this easy."

"Nothing's ever easy." She reached for the door handle.

"Hold on a second."

"You've got to be kidding…"

Her voice trailed off as he stepped out of the car and rounded the hood to open her door. "The army didn't beat all the class out of me," he retorted with a grin.

"Do tell?"

Owen pushed the door closed and locked it. He did not have a response to her remark, nor the faintest idea if she even expected one. Was it really this hard to talk to someone? He gestured for her to precede him around the front of the car. It seemed natural to cup her elbow protectively as they waited for a break in the traffic. Cristina glanced down but did not pull away as they crossed the street. He let go on the other side. Like the apartment, it was too soon for casual contact. Their encounter on the vent was growing more surreal by the second. He opened his mouth to say something.

Cristina was quicker. "I'm not really hungry yet. Is there someplace we could get a drink first?"

"Uh…I don't know. There used to be." Owen turned and looked up the street. "I knew a guy who lived out here." He swallowed hard, caught off-guard by a surge of memories.

"We don't have to go there," Cristina murmured. "The restaurant is fine."

Owen cleared his throat. "No, it's fine. I think it's two blocks up and one over. Do you want to walk?"

"Okay."

They walked in silence. Owen welcomed the distraction of the sharp breeze against his flushed cheeks. His mind was a jumble with memories of his former unit mate Timothy Dahner and his pretty young wife. They had loved their adopted hometown of Seattle. Going so far as to buy a house and plan a family. Shelly Dahner still lived in that house with their infant son Drake. He had not seen either of them since the funeral. What had possessed him to take Cristina to this place so full of the past? How could he share a drink in the same bar Tim had taken him to on their last leave? They could have gone to any restaurant in the city. He could have gone home…

"Is this it?"

"What?" Owen stopped a few feet in front of her. Lost in thought, he had walked by the entrance to the bar. Black Jack's was written in thick green neon on a sign hanging in the window. The light gave Cristina's face an odd glow, deepening the frown pulling at her lips. Her hand was hanging in mid-air, evidently hesitant to touch him after the incident in the alley. Owen summoned a weak smile. "Yes, this is it."

Cristina hung back as he reached for the door. "You're sure about this?"

His fingers curled around the cold metal handle and pulled. "Sure."

Black Jack's was set up in a converted gas station. The garage served as the recreational area with two pool tables and Foozball set up in the center. The back and two sides were lined with booths and a jukebox; the bar abutted the walled off overhead doors. The office was now storage with a small kitchenette that provided hot snacks for the patrons. It was the kind of establishment where people knew your name. If they did not then you could drink in peace so long as you did not mind the occasional sideways glance or muttered remark. At seven p.m. on a weeknight the place was quiet save for a handful of regulars perched on stools and one old man slumped in a corner booth.

"Do you want to sit at the bar or at a booth?"

Cristina shrugged. Conversations had stuttered to a halt at their arrival but were now resuming. She returned the curious stares directed at them with a shade of attitude in her stance before indicating the booth opposite the sleeping drunk with a thrust of her chin.

Owen nodded agreement. "What do you want to drink?"

"Tequila…er, no, Guiness is fine."

"Good choice." She smirked and head for the booth. Turning, he ordered her beer and a Scotch for himself. Cristina was sitting with her back to the wall when he brought the drinks to the table. She turned to face him as he slid into the seat.

"So you've been here before?"

"Once." He raised his glass and she did the same.

"What are we drinking to?"

"Absent friends." The words stuck in his throat and he chased them down with a healthy swallow of Scotch.

"Owen?"

He did not expect his name. Nor the sympathetic expression that darkened her eyes to near black in the dim lighting. Hearing it was a reminder of how good it felt to be known by someone. Not as Doctor Hunt and not as a superior,just Owen. He rolled the glass between his fingers and studied the tabletop, unsure how to react. On the vent there had been kisses and nonsensical murmurs of approval but no names. Cristina had crossed a line and he had not known until this second how much he wanted her to.

"I'm sorry."

Owen winced and looked up. He had waited too long and she was shifting uncomfortably, watching him from beneath lowered lashes. "Don't be." He smiled shakily. "I was wondering what it would sound like coming from you."

"You were?"

He reached for the Scotch. "Yeah." Swallowing half the remaining shot he set the glass down with a sharp tap on the table and forced himself to meet her curious stare. "I'm not very good at this."

"I noticed." She took a drink from her beer and set it to one side, leaving room for their hands in the center of the table. Tentative fingers slid across the polished wood and grazed his sleeve. "I'm not either."

Her touch was feather-light. He flinched involuntarily, hating himself. "Do you play pool?"

A shadow slid across Cristina's face. She withdrew her hand and sat back. "I'm not very good."

"Maybe you're better than you think," he offered weakly. He half-expected her to get up and walk away. In another time and place he certainly would have.

Cristina took another swallow of beer. "Maybe." She stood and walked across the floor to the wrack of cues hanging above the jukebox. Selecting a stick, she turned and indicated the table closest to their booth with the tip. "Let's find out."

Three games later they had attracted the attention of everyone at the bar. The cheers of admiration for Cristina's skills eventually roused the old man in the corner. He added a drunken salute as she sunk the eight-ball with a double bank shot from one end of the brick-red felted table to the other. Owen laid his stick down on the inside of the rail and bowed smartly from the waist, garnering a smile from Cristina. An older man passed her a second Guiness and the bartender offered Owen a shot of Scotch on the house as a consolation prize. He accepted it gratefully and trailed Cristina back to their booth. Chuckling deep in his throat, he placed the fresh glass next to the now empty first one and sat down.

"Maybe?" he repeated sarcastically.

Cristina's laugh came high and girlish. "Not what you expected."

"No."

"Pool sharking wasn't part of basic training for the army?"

"I don't know too many guys who could run the table like you just did. Not once but three times." He sobered and reached for the Scotch. "At least not anymore."

She watched him take a drink and put the glass aside. Her small hands folded together in the center of the table and her gaze shifted to a study of her knuckles. A long moment of silence and then she was looking up again, lips pursed and eyes bright. "Why did we come here?"

"You wanted a drink."

"Why did we come_ here_?" she emphasized, ignoring his attempted evasion.

"I didn't plan on coming here. It just…happened."

"Oh please. You expect me to believe that you didn't know where we were going tonight?"

"I didn't," he snapped. She jumped and sat back. Owen drew a deep breath. Her courage and patience were admirable. He felt small and feeble in comparison. "I didn't think about it. I just wanted to take you someplace where…"

"No one would know us," she finished. A wry smile twisted her lips. "I can understand that. Especially after yesterday."

"I didn't agree with Richard's decision."

"Doesn't matter, does it?"

Owen picked up his glass. "No, I guess it doesn't." He drained the liquor and met her eyes, feeling a touch of pity at the sadness lurking there. "I just thought you should know."

"It should have been mine. You all agreed that I was ready and able to do the solo surgery. I know life's not fair but sometimes knowing isn't enough." She grimaced and reached for the beer. Draining half of it, she licked the foam from her lips and smiled gamely. "Thanks anyway."

"You were right."

"What? When?"

Owen looked down at their hands now resting only inches apart in the center of the table. The urge to touch her was almost a physical ache deep in his chest. Casting doubt to the wind he reached out to cover her hands with his. "In the observation room. You were right to tell them how you felt. Maybe hearing the truth from a peer will finally wake them up to the reality of what they are all supposed to be doing there."

Cristina's hands slowly pulling back until their fingers laced lightly together. "Maybe, but I wouldn't count on it." She smiled crookedly. "I don't know what to say….about the vent I mean. I needed a place and I don't know…."

Owen stretched forward to grasp her wrists. Words crowded his mouth but he bit them back. It was enough to feel her pulse beating rapidly through the sweater and the flutter of her fingers against the table and his sleeves. Hear the hitch in her breath and the long sigh that faded into a comfortable silence. Eventually Cristina eased from his grasp and sat back. She finished her beer and glanced towards the front of the bar. Owen followed her line of sight. Full darkness had fallen while they were inside. She did not seem in a rush to leave however, and he felt a stirring of renewed tension the longer she sat.

"So are you going to tell me why we came here?"

"I'm not sure I can." The admission spilled out unchecked and left him yearning for a fresh drink and a dark, empty room.

"Owen?" Her hand returned to his wrist. Gently resting there as the echo of his name blended with the low murmur of conversation filling the room. "Maybe it would help."

Was it that obvious? Had anyone else noticed just how messed up he really was? The implication filled Owen with equal parts relief and horror. "It's not that easy," he whispered more to himself than her.

"It wasn't easy to tell you about my father. Or follow you out of Joe's that night."  
"Then why tell me?" he demanded. The words came out with more force than he intended but she did back down.

"Because I wanted your respect. I didn't like the impression you had and I couldn't see another way to change it. Nothing I did was right. Nothing I said could please you. I thought you should know the reason why." Her voice dropped an octave. "Why did you tell me about the ambush?"

"You had a right to know."

"Why?"

"Because of what happened before."

Cristina nodded silently.

"I'm sorry about…." He sighed raggedly. "About the alley."

"I know. I wouldn't be sitting here otherwise."

"I didn't mean for that to happen…"

Her hand curled around his wrist and squeezed. "Tell me why we're here."

Owen had not lied. Black Jack's Bar was not part of the original plan and sitting here now was beyond surreal. Cristina's presence was warmth and safety in a landscape pitted by memories that were stunningly vivid for all the time that had passed. It would not be easy to tell her about Timothy Dahneror any of the others. Just the thought left him breathless and painted the room in shades of bloody crimson and gray. Yet this was another time, separate and distinct per his definition. And she another person with the advantage of being one step removed. If not Cristina, then who?

Owen drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. Her grip tightened and he pressed his fingertips to her wrist, savoring the steady, comforting beat of her pulse. The first words slipped free in a whisper. "His name was Timothy Dahner and he was a friend of mine."

THE~END


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